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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22689535">it's sick, and it's sad</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetchems/pseuds/sweetchems'>sweetchems</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol, Angst, Drunkenness, Emetophobia, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, This will make you sad i guarentee it, Wholesome way bros content, not fucking waycest</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:01:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22689535</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetchems/pseuds/sweetchems</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard shows up back home drunk.</p><p>Blackout fucking drunk.</p><p>Mikey is scared, naturally.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it's sick, and it's sad</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi, it's miels, and i swear to GOD this is not waycest or supposed to be waycesty at all. i just wanted to make the way sibs suffer.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Gerard is </span>
  <em>
    <span>dirty</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's staggering when he comes home. His hands are shaking, and his shoulder-length black hair is matted with grease and sweat and grime. He's as pale as a sheet, and announces his arrival home with an unceremonious </span>
  <em>
    <span>thunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the living room that Mikey hears from his room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's really glad Mom and Dad are away for the weekend when he comes running out of his room and sees Gerard laying on the dirty carpet, greasy and gross and smelling like his own throw-up. He wonders how Gerard got home if he's walking this bad. How he got in the door, he seems too wasted to probably actually remember how to use his keys.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And fucking shit, Mikey's 16 years old and skin and bones, dragging his 20 year old brother to the bathroom to assess the damages. He shouldn't have to do this, he knows that. He's a kid, he shouldn't have to haul his drunk brother around. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn't have to. Gerard will probably tell him that in the morning, when he's groaning and mumbling and nursing a hangover.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Mikey knows, if the roles were reversed, if he was the drunk-off-his-ass older sibling, and Gee was the younger of them, the baby, he would do the same for him. So really, he thinks Gee's being kind of a hypocrite, kind of the ignorant shithead he usually is, thinking Mikey isn't gonna haul his wasted ass around and try and get him feeling better.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard nearly flops to the floor after the effort of walking to the bathroom, his bones thunking- even though he's bigger than Mikey, he's still got these weird, scrawny teenager-on-a-growth-spurt legs, bony knees and all-, so Mikey plunks down cross legged in front of his heavy, floppy sort of shape. "What the fuck did you do, dude...?" He asks softly, hollowly, looking up at Gerard through his ugly, plastic framed girl-glasses that sit at the end of his nose and slide down, because his nose dips at the tip, instead of poking up all beaky and too-sharp like Gerard's does.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gee, who's more of a lumpy heap of rotted person the same pallid, nausea-born, doughy blue-grey-pale color as a botched and undercooked blueberry muffin than he is Mikey's brother, makes a crude moaning-mumbling sound. "Ev'rythn'...." He groans with a weak, slurred laugh, that sounds more totally fucking miserable than actually amused. When Mikey goes to untangle his bangs so he can push them out of the way and try and look at Gerard's eyes to see if they're bloodshot, or his pupils are dilating, any telltale, recognizable signs of any drugs- he doesn't find any, maybe Gerard is just wasted-, Gerard stares at him with big, hopeless eyes, his eyelids fluttering closed every few seconds before snapping open again. "M...Mikes…?" He slurs, and his breath reeks of liquor and vomit. God, he looks like a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>wreck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, Gee," Mikey manages a little smile, though he doesn't know why he bothers, Gerard can probably tell even in this state that he's freaking him out big-time. "'s me, are you in there, dude…?" He asks, and before Gerard can even start processing that question, he's lurching shoulders-first towards the toilet, nearly smacking his face on the seat- oh wait, he does, just kinda hits his forehead against it with a strangled retching cry, that's what that awful </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> is- in his effort to not puke his guts all over the floor. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All that comes up when he throws up is a wet, sloshy mess of booze and stomach acid that probably stings like a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitch</span>
  </em>
  <span> coming up, the smell of it settling heavy over the tiny room. Mikey doesn't really have time to get over there and hold his hair back out of his face like girls do for each other when they get sick, so there's probably vomit in Gerard's hair. When he roughly jerks his head up, his movements choppy, like something cut up and pieced back together, like creepy-on-purpose clips out of a Marilyn Manson video on MTV, his eyes are red rimmed, and there's spit and puke all down his face and in the ends of his bangs. There's a red mark forming on his forehead where he hit his head, that'll definitely bruise in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Jesus fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>…." Mikey says under his breath. "You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>so</span>
  </em>
  <span> lucky Mom and Dad aren't here…." His voice comes out joking, sing-songy almost, but wavers with worry, because he knows Gerard is in probably the worst shape he's ever seen him in.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tapping his palms on his bony thighs in a rather frantic recreation of the melody to Basket Case- not on purpose, it was just stuck in his head the other day and decided to come back up about an hour ago-, Mikey tries to remember what you do for someone who's drunk off his ass. Don't let him pass out, he thinks that's a thing. He'll choke on his own puke if he falls asleep wrong. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Tap-taptap-tap</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He tries to think about of what you do, but all he can remember is the vague, useless Driver's Ed films, with their pictures of mangled corpses and footage of crying families, nothing about how to actually help a drunk person before they end up six feet under.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, Mikey can try with the </span>
  <em>
    <span>keeping him awake</span>
  </em>
  <span> part at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What happened?" He decides to ask, reaching up to push his bangs out of his face so he can watch Gerard without an awkward blur over his vision.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard's head lolls from side to side, and Mikey wishes he had kept the half-blindness, wants to take off his glasses so he doesn't have to watch his corpse-brother. "Um…." Gerard blinks, heavy and tired and slow. There's makeup smeared around his eyes, Mikey notes, remembers him smearing the stuff- black pencil liner that he stole from CVS- around his eyes before he went out. He looked like a fucking raccoon, and now he just looks living dead. "Um- um… wen'to a show…." Gerard recounts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"You told me that before you went. What happened </span>
  <em>
    <span>during</span>
  </em>
  <span> the show?" Mikey asks, deadpan to hide how uncomfortable he is. All of this, puke and drunks and the thought of Gerard dying of alcohol poisoning, it's a little over his depth, a lot scary. He'll probably have nightmares about Gerard's puffy eyes and lurching, twitchy shape of a lumpy discolored body for like, a </span>
  <em>
    <span>week</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Or he won't think about it, and then it'll pop up in his brain in six months, a year.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard sloppily presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, his body moving all jerky still. "U-um…. Drank a lot durin'...." He mumbles. "Shots…? I th'nk…."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey distinctly recalls Gerard not eating dinner, too nervousexcited and hyped about the show, since it was for a friend's band. </span>
  <em>
    <span>What the fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Who doesn't know that doing shots- drinking at all, but something like shots especially- on an empty stomach is like, the dumbest idea since putting your hand on a hot stove. "What the fuck…." He repeats out loud, pressing a palm to his forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"M'sorry," Gerard slurs messily, his breath coming weird. His skin is </span>
  <em>
    <span>white</span>
  </em>
  <span>, tacky with sweat, his eyes are sunken into their sockets, glazed over. He looks like he's about to hurl again, and sure enough, he lurches forward with a retch, too out of it to direct the mess of stomach acid. So it just spills all down his front in a few heaving spatters of breath, all down his leather jacket and his Bowie shirt (he's gonna be so mad about that tomorrow) in a soppy mess that's so foul smelling that Mikey can almost taste it himself, in the air, burning the back of his throat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey pinches the bridge of his nose, like Mom does when they've done something really stupid. "Fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>Christ</span>
  </em>
  <span>," He mutters. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then he remembers what you do with a drunk person. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Water. Waterwaterwaterwater</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Give them water, Jesus fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span> he's an idiot. He bolts to the kitchen on weird, skinny chicken-legs, finding the first clean glass his hands grab onto, and filling it up before practically sprinting like a goddamn Olympic champion back to the bathroom. Gerard's still conscious when he gets back, if barely. Fuck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Okay, c'mon, I've got water." Mikey </span>
  <em>
    <span>thuds</span>
  </em>
  <span> down on his knees in front of his brother again, nudges up to Gerard and tugs his mouth open. Gerard watches him with these big eyes, like something out of a nightmare, spluttering weakly and blinking when Mikey tries to pour water into his mouth. "C'mon, Gee…." He sighs tiredly. "I swear to God, if you fucking puke this up…." He takes the glass away from Gerard's chapped, peeling lips again after getting him to take a few sips, and managing to not drown him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The house feels all wrong at night, Mikey notices, after he's been awake with Gerard for a while. He's talking absently to him and trying not to look at how puffy and sunken and wrong he looks. He picks at his nails, at the loose bits of dead skin around them, picks his jeans threadbare, picks at a zit above his lip until it bleeds. About thirty minutes after the water, he goes padding down to Gee's basement room, and returns with a baggy old Black Flag shirt, which he attempts to wrangle Gerard's limp, tired limbs into, since his jacket and shirt are covered in mostly fluid puke. He does anything he can to not focus on Gerard being a drunken mess, even as the older seems to sober slightly as the hours tick past.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mikes…." Gerard murmurs at, according to the weird old clock in the living room, around five in the morning. Mikey makes a soft sound of acknowledgement, twirling his glasses around in his bony hands. "M'sorry…." Gerard's voice is shaky, he's gonna cry, </span>
  <em>
    <span>shit</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He's always been a crier, and Mikey's never really sure how to handle it. He's not really the best with criers, which is ironic, since he's kind of one himself. Hell, he's been biting back tears all night, worry and nausea bubbling in his stomach and tears pricking the corners of his eyes, his brain full up with weird, paranoid images of Gerard dead. The guy can be a jerk, but he can't </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he doesn't deserve that. "Hey, it's fine…." He awkwardly pats at the shoulder of the slightly more Gerard-like mess of person that his brother is now. "Can't do anything about it now, right?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard shrugs noncommittally, head dipping from side to side like one of those creepy, top-heavy baby dolls with the plastic heads and cloth bodies. "Still…. m'a shitty brother…." He mumbles.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah, you kind of are</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Mikey thinks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"It's okay, really…. You'd take care of me the same if we swapped roles, so…." He says instead, pulling the millionth loose thread from his jeans, wiping at his eyes with the back of his other hand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Gerard is angry and hungover the next morning, a total wreck, dehydrated and tired and stumbling around the kitchen like a zombie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Mikey sits at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal and offering bad advice, words of what he hopes is comfort. He's always had a knack for idolizing his brother in the wrong situations, but for once, he's got it right.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For once he looks at his hungover brother and thinks </span>
  <em>
    <span>I don't ever wanna do that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don't wanna scare anyone like that</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>check out my tumblr @/ourangeloftrash and cry to me about sib angst. or angst in general, i WILL do angst and whump prompts.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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